


Softly Through the Shadow of the Evening Sun

by ClutchHedonist



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Arachnophobia, Body Horror, Canon-Typical The Web Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical Violence, Face-Sitting, It/Its Pronouns For Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Leitner Books (The Magnus Archives), Mary Keay's A+ Parenting, Michael Distortion's Unknowable Junk, Monsterfucker Gerard Keay, Other, Road Trips, Spiders, This gets real Webby, Trans Gerard Keay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27064876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClutchHedonist/pseuds/ClutchHedonist
Summary: Michael leans back in its seat, lifting its chin a sliver of an inch, “The Archivist is taking you on a journey, is she?”“What’s it to you?” Gerry counters, “You old friends?”The outline of the figure opposite him snaps out of focus like a blurred television screen, “We are not friends.” It hisses.Gerry raises both hands in contrition, “My mistake, then.”“But you and I, bookburner.” It presses as its face drifts back into shape, “We could be.”
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 204





	1. Chapter 1

Gerry scrubs a hand over his eyes at the sound of the alarm, smudges the remainder of yesterday’s liner into a broad, diaphanous smear over his temple. Groaning, he bats away the mountainous duvet with one hand. The floor is perniciously cold, bites at the soles of his feet as soon as they touch the ground. He spares a handful of lukewarm curses for it as he rises. 

The bathroom tile is spattered with black flecks, the remnants of innumerable careless boxed dye jobs. Gerry, eyes already fixed to his phone, fumbles for the shower handle. Four messages. Three from his mother. He supposes she’s had a flash of corporeality again at some point during the night. He swipes them aside without reading them.

One from Gertrude. This one Gerry thumbs open. It’s dry and to the point, her usual style.  _ Lead. Discuss in person, 9:00 AM.  _ His bleary gaze flicks to the clock in the corner of the screen. Enough time to shower, at least. Maybe pick up a coffee on the way. God, she does love her early meetings.

He takes the shower just on the right side of scalding and the coffee black, and then he’s making his way to the tube station. Gertrude’s sway at the Institute covers a lot. Motels, plane tickets. Cover stories. But it certainly doesn’t cover his rent. A flat in Chelsea is beyond him, and so, shoving his youthful memories of its streets forcefully to one side, Morden it is.

He had decided just after renting the flat that he wouldn’t go out of his way to avoid the vacant building that had once housed Pinhole Books. Doing so would mean acknowledging his mother. Capitulating to her. The plaque is still there, as tarnished as ever. He tries not to wonder what’s left inside. Not much, he’d guess. At least not much real. During the case, most of the shop had ended up in Evidence. He certainly couldn’t say what had stayed there.

When he’s forced to pass it by - and the quickest route between his flat and the tube station does compel him to do so at least a few times a week - he refuses to look. Perhaps she’s up there. Perhaps she isn’t. Either way, he’ll give her nothing. After all of it, it’s what she deserves.

Today, though, as he rounds the corner, his eyes snag on the door. It’s been repainted, its peeling dark stain replaced with a nauseating canary yellow. Gerry wrinkles his nose and turns away.

\---

“Gerard.” Gertrude intones without looking up from her notes, “You’re late.”

Gerry blinks, glancing down at his phone. 9:03. He snorts, “Three minutes.”

“Can make an awful lot of difference, in our line of work, yes.” She finishes for him.

“We’re not on assignment.” He grunts as he drops down into the chair opposite her desk.

“Yet.”

“Yet.” He agrees, “You have something for me?”

She lifts her head, finally meeting his gaze, eyes cool and measured as she slides a folder across the desk between them, “I do. The effects of a Leitner, if I’m not mistaken.”

Gerry plucks the folder up, shuffling through the papers inside of it, “A casino?”

“Correct.” Gertrude nods, “Atlantic City. Seven reported casualties over the course of the last month.”

Gerry’s brow furrows, “What of?”

“Thirst, primarily. Sometimes hunger.”

“All at the tables?”

“Every one of them.”

“S’not like they don’t serve food and drinks on the floor.” Gerry notes, “They’re just-”

“Too preoccupied to consume it. The Web’s influence, I have no doubt.” Gertrude says, “Your thoughts?”

Gerry leans back in the chair, chewing at one half-lacquered nail, “... _ The Natural History of Selborne _ , if I had to guess. Gilbert White. Amplifies fixations. Addictions. That sort of thing.”

“It does sound a good match.” Gertrude agrees, “I trust you have no pressing plans for the afternoon?”

Gerry crosses his arms over his chest, “I could have plans.” He protests.

Gertrude arches one slender brow, “Do you?”

He purses his lips, “...Hmph.”

“Then I suggest you begin packing.” She tells him simply, “Your plane leaves Heathrow at four thirty.”

He blinks, “You’re not coming?” He asks. It’s not like Gertrude to allow Gerry to operate where she can’t keep tabs on him. Although, of late, he’s fairly certain that physical proximity is becoming less and less a prerequisite for that.

“My ability to operate in that particular locale has become somewhat limited since 2001.” Gertrude says mildly.

Gerry doesn’t ask. He wants to, but he doesn’t. Perhaps he’ll look it up later. Maybe when he’s being forced to piss away hours at the airport. It won’t be the first incident he’s had to piece together in Gertrude’s explosive wake.

“Just me, then?” He remarks.

“Unless you’d prefer that I send one of the research team with you.” She replies.

Gerry huffs, “They’d never be able to keep up with me in the field.” And besides, what if their stuffed shirt got a smudge of dirt on it? He’d never hear the end of it. 

“As I expected.” She slides open her desk drawer and produces a small folio containing a travel itinerary and single plane ticket.

Gerry tucks it into the inner pocket of his battered leather jacket, “I’ll text you when I get to the States.”

Gertrude waves it away, “You needn’t.” At Gerry’s arched eyebrow, she gives the minutest of wry smiles, “This is your assignment, Gerard. You hardly need to check in with me. I’m not your mother.”

He hisses his displeasure, “Call you if I’m on fire, then.”

“I don’t imagine that there will be much I can do about that from my desk.”

Merciless, her. Gerry tosses his hair back over one shoulder, “Right. Suppose I’ll just see you if I make it out alive. Cheers.”

\---

Sloane Square is a bloody nightmare. Rich tourists pouring in and out of the hotel. Entire herds of the dilettante children of every Lombard Street so-and-so shrieking with laughter on their way to Prada and Jimmy Choo. A whirlpool of cars circling in the roundabout, a crush of bodies competing for space on the stairs to the Underground.

Gerry keeps his headphones on and his head down. Generally, his appearance saves him from at least some of the jostle of suit coated shoulders and expensive purses on the platform, but he doesn’t like to take any chances. Best to help it along with his body language. Aposematism, he likes to think of it. This one’s poisonous. Better move along.

Blessedly, it’s after rush hour and long before anyone above ground is considering taking lunch. The platform is mostly empty, save an older couple peering helplessly at the map on the wall.

“I’m telling you, we’re supposed to take the District towards Upminster.” The man puffs. His voice has a loud, hard edge to it. American.

“The front desk clerk said Tower Hill would-” The woman at his side protests

“It says right here.” He stabs a finger towards the map, “If we want to go to Covent Garden, we take this one.”

Gerry is a hair’s breadth from rolling his eyes when he hears a voice, soft and almost distant, from near the staircase.

“They’ll both take you where you need to go. But not from this platform, I’m afraid.”

He turns to look over his shoulder. There’s a man standing on the last stair. Tall, easily a head taller than Gerry. Blonde hair that cascades in messy curls over his shoulders. A bright, patterned shirt that Gerry, were he feeling charitable, might call ‘eclectic’. 

He is not feeling charitable.

The shirt is horrendous.

The man has descended the stairs, now, and is shepherding the grateful couple further down the platform, “Through there.” He tells them, and Gerry sees him motion to something around the corner of an adjoining hallway, “If you hurry, you might make it.”

Something about him makes Gerry’s skin prickle. Besides the fashion sense, there’s little he can point to as explicitly disquieting, but there’s a- there’s a heaviness to him, to his presence, that pulls at Gerry’s consciousness. Tugs his gaze toward him in a way that Gerry has learned to listen carefully to.

A door creaks open somewhere down the hallway. He shouldn’t be able to hear it, not over his music, not over the platform fans, the hiss and screech of trains, the latent rumble of the city. It echoes, pin-drop clear, in his ear. His muscles tense.

The man - the  _ thing,  _ whatever it is - smiles broadly as it turns back to face him.

“I’m going your way, I think.” It says, voice languid, almost dreamlike. 

“I’m not certain about that.” Gerry spits, taking a step backwards.

“You’re right, of course.” It concedes, “I can hardly claim any affinity for certainty.”

It has always struck Gerry as grimly poetic that the deadliest responses when presented with any of the Fears are the most instinctual ones. Nearly all of them render both fight and flight equally useless. Going toe to toe with the Slaughter is a good way to lose the entire foot, and offering chase to anything that Hunts is categorically insane.

“New to the neighborhood, then?” Gerry stalls as his mind reaches for a classification that he can act on. No instant violence. Plenty of light. Space enough to move, but not too much space.

“There is very little to which I am new.” It replies.

Gerry can make out pinpricks of light in the tunnel, now, and the discordant wail of the braking train pierces the air. The thing doesn’t flinch. Uncanny, he’ll give it that. Doesn’t automatically make it one of the Stranger’s, but it doesn’t discourage the idea, either. It does certainly have that aura of not-rightness to it. 

The windows of the approaching train change his mind.

Every reflection is different, bending and twisting in each window for only a moment before flickering to the next as the train draws up to the platform. An entirely new contorted horror in each pane. None of the hands are right.

“Suppose deception has a long history.” Gerry tries.

The thing laughs, a pealing, echoing thing that makes Gerry’s temples pound and his mouth taste like cotton, “You  _ are _ clever, bookburner.” It extends one long hand towards the train, “Shall we?”

There’s no one in the car closest to him. Gerry doesn’t know whether to be dismayed or thankful. At least there’s nothing horrible-smelling inside when he steps carefully over the threshold. He doesn’t see the thing move to meet him, but when he turns to look, there it is, perched in the row across from him. A lifetime of exposure keeps him from flinching, but it’s a narrow thing.

“A chat, then, is it?” He asks, leaning against one of the poles.

“A question.” It replies. Its shifting eyes rove over his face, measuring. Dissecting.

Gerry crosses his arms as the train lurches forward, “Yeah?” A game, then, no doubt. He feels his shoulders begin to settle. As far as he can tell, he’s been played with by worse.

The thing cocks its head to one side, and its blonde curls drift out of gravity’s grip, “You are leaving soon.”

“That’s not a question.”

“No, I suppose it is not.” It laughs, and Gerry feels his stomach turn.

Gerry purses his lips, “So?”

It leans back in its seat, lifting its chin a sliver of an inch, “The Archivist is taking you on a journey, is she?”

“What’s it to you?” Gerry counters, “You old friends?”

The outline of the figure opposite him snaps out of focus like a blurred television screen, “We are not friends.” It hisses.

Gerry raises both hands in contrition, “My mistake, then.”

“But you and I, bookburner.” It presses as its face drifts back into shape, “We could be.”

“Friends usually know each others’ names.” Gerry says, one penciled brow arching.

“Forgive me.” It chuckles, “It has been some time since I have been forced to consider the concept. You may call me Michael.”

“...Michael.” Gerry repeats, “Right.”

It smiles with sharp teeth, “As ill a fit as any name, to be sure.”

“Suppose that’s fair.” Gerry snorts.

“You did not tell me your name, Gerard Keay.” The thing - Michael - coos.

The corner of Gerry’s mouth twitches, “You know an awful lot for something I’ve never met.”

“Met, no. Seen, yes.” It tells him.

Gerry scrapes his mind for any memory of the figure in front of him, tall and colorful and sharp. It’s not exactly the type of thing you forget, but then again, it’s also clearly not the type of thing to stick to one shape, “So, what? I burn your favorite copy of Infinite Jest, or-?”

It’s becoming less human the further from light the train takes them. Gerry watches its fingers lengthen, whetten themselves contorted and keen. It’s taller, he thinks. No,  _ longer.  _ The size and shape of it can hardly be called height. 

“You are interesting.” It says after several long moments of silence.

Gerry winces. ‘Interesting’. Might as well be an epithet, in this line of work. Just a crack in the surface for things like this to get their hooks in, “Mm.” Gerry hums, noncommittal.

“Not to the Spiral, although of course I suppose it might think of you as a nuisance.” Michael continues.

“Not a job offer, then.” 

“Have you ever known them to offer, bookburner?” It laughs, “Did the Beholding make you an offer?” 

“I don’t work for the Institute.” He protests.

“I did not ask about the Institute.”

“No. But you did ask about the Archivist.” Gerry counters. He watches Michael begin to flicker and gutter once more. Easy does it, then, “...You find her interesting?”

“Do you find monsters interesting?” It warbles, “Or dangerous?”

Gerry’s brows cant, “Depends on the monster.” 

He swears he can see the place where its face should be color, “I see.”

“Seems more like my job, that.” Gerry clips.

It chortles with delight, clapping its incomprehensible hands together, “Yes, bookburner, I suppose it is. You see? We are becoming friends already.”

Gerry wrinkles his nose, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“This, again.” It huffs, “Tell me, bookburner, is there anything of which you would be truly sure?”

“In present company?”

A grin splits its face, pushing beyond the boundaries of its mouth, “Best not.” 

Gerry sighs, pushing a few strands of dark hair behind one ear, “What is it that you want, then, Michael?”

“I’ve told you.” It protests, “Although I suppose you are right to not believe me. Even I find it difficult, at times.”

“You said I’ve seen you before.” Gerry muses.

It nods, and trying to follow the motion makes Gerry’s head swim, “We have seen one another, yes.” It says.

“Then why now?” Gerry questions, “If you ‘want to be friends’, why talk to me now, instead of any of the other times we’ve supposedly been around each other?”

“I do not wish to see you unmade.” It answers with a shrug.

Gerry blinks, “...And you think something’s going to unmake me?”

“You are going on a journey, are you not?” It asks.

“Something out there I should be keeping an eye out for?” And if there is, why warn him? It seems a good way for Michael to get itself in deep with another Entity. 

“Will you be alone, bookburner?” It urges.

“I- what?” Gerry’s brows furrow, “...Yes. Is that worse?” Is the Lonely involved, somehow? He’s never known it to be too friendly with the Web. Too much ‘social’ in social politics.

Michael seems to untense, its edges smearing, “Then you are safer than anticipated.” It breathes.

Gerry opens his mouth to speak, to press it further, sift for more answers from within its cryptic answers, and the train’s speaker pings above them.

“This station is Morden. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.”

“Wh-” This line doesn’t even go to Morden Station. He always catches the bus halfway on the route home. To be entirely honest, he’s not certain he’s even felt the train move since it first pulled away from Sloane Square. Gerry turns to the window. Sure enough, the train is settling in at Morden. The passengers beginning to disembark look just as baffled as he. 

“Enjoy your flight, bookburner.” He hears Michael’s voice, singsong, from behind him. When he turns to face it, he’s alone.

\---

The flight is distinctly not enjoyable. Neither is Newark, or the cramped, dingy-smelling bus that carries him from it to his equally dingy-smelling motel just outside Atlantic City. The attendant at the check-in desk barely gives him a second glance before handing him a key card and motioning further down the hall.

The striped wallpaper in the corridors is scored and peeling, and the glass in all of the vending machines is heavy with limescale. Here and there, a cigarette burn marrs the carpet. Gerry can hear music thudding in a handful of the rooms despite the hour. 

It’s perfect.

It takes three tries to key into his own suite, a dusty double with a microwave that looks like it’s older than he is stuffed onto a folding stool between the nightstands and three copies of the same dulling, ill-framed floral print on the walls. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the far bed, followed quickly by his duffle bag. He never travels with more than a carry-on if he can help it. Wouldn’t do to be separated from anything he might need during a trip. 

Eyes bleary, he checks his phone. Not even midnight here, although his body begs him to believe otherwise. The casinos will be bustling by now. No better time to case the floor. If he can keep his eyes open, he can drag himself through the shower and be at Resorts before anyone of consequence has a chance to register that he’s been here.

Beneath the near-blistering shower spray, he turns the case file over in his head once more. Oldest casino in the city. Military hospital, once ( _ possible Slaughter connections?,  _ his mind anotates helpfully). Recently renovated. Seven deaths at the tables since August, no pattern in terms of age, gender, class, anything. A from-the-ground-up sort of investigation.

Worse, if memory serves, if  _ The History of Selborne  _ is actually there, it doesn’t even need to be read to be dangerous. Just open. Fucking Leitner. Fucking library. Fuck’s sake.

He grumbles to himself as he scrabbles the shampoo out of his hair.

\---

The hotel instant coffee tastes like twice-burnt mud, but it’ll do. He throws back both packets of it in a single cup and calls for a cab. Pays in cash a dozen blocks from the casino itself and steps out into the damp, cool night air. 

He takes the boardwalk there. Doesn’t see the harm in it, really; New Jersey itself is too colorful to really take much notice of him. The rides and games of the Steel Pier chatter and chime and sing, too loud and too bright and too much, and Gerry can’t keep a sliver of a smile from his lips. It’s tacky, sure. Ugly, even. But it  _ knows _ . It doesn’t try to be anything it’s not. He can appreciate that.

The lobby of the casino, though. Tiled in black, white, and gold and flanked on either side by tremendous faux-marble columns, it stands as a gaudy pretender to a glory that Atlantic City hasn’t had claim to for at least half a century. The casino floor itself is no better. The carpet looks like technicolor vomit, and the ceiling mirrors it with an aggression that Gerry is used to ascribing to the Hunt, not misguided interior design. Servers dressed as flappers flutter between games with champagne-laden trays and too-wide smiles. 

At least it’s easily torturous enough to house a Leitner.

Gerry takes a long, deep breath to steady himself. Almost immediately, he can feel the itch begin to prickle between his brows, the  _ hunger,  _ that distant awareness that something is here, something to see, something to watch, something to Know. He just has to find it. He closes his eyes, draws another breath. One of the tattoos on his thumb quietly blinks.

The speakers above him are droning some sort of bland instrumental jazz.  _ Halos of Eternity David Luong released 1 Jan of this year _ , his head offers up immediately. He sighs with relief and opens his eyes. Good. Cooperative today.

He allows himself a few minutes to walk the floor. He’s got, as he sees it, maybe three or four before the security begins to get suspicious. The first passes in slot machine after slot machine after slot machine. Screens full of video poker. Full walls of sports betting around the underlit bar. Finally, the tables come into view. Pai Gow and baccarat alongside roulette and craps, all the way across the floor.

There’s a blackjack table near the center of all of it with a brunette woman just sliding off her stool. She stumbles for a moment, leans on the blonde at her side with a peal of slurred laughter. Gerry watches them gather their things, then ducks out of their way to take her seat. If she’s managing to leave, he reasons, she’s in little danger beyond a spectacular hangover. 

He plays the first game poorly out of both inexperience and disinterest. Let Elias Bouchard get his fancy sock garters in a knot about it later, he figures. The dealer is a woman in her late thirties with a warm laugh and quick hands. He watches her carefully as she gathers up the chips owed her, then the cards. Nothing strange beyond her acid-colored acrylic nails, which are longer than he imagined it possible to play cards with.

“Jeanette?” He reads the name off her tag as she puts a stack of cards into the automatic shuffler.

She smiles quickly, “Yes?”

He returns the gesture, “Just getting acquainted.” 

“You  _ are  _ British.” She remarks, “I thought so!”

“Yeah. My-” He considers his surroundings for a moment, “-wife is on a business trip. Tagging along.” He tells her as he slides a few more chips into his betting square.

“Oh?” She’s dealing out the cards, now, lightning quick, “Enjoying Jersey?”

“It’s, uh. It’s different.” He chuckles.

She barks a hearty laugh, “Than anywhere else, sweetie, you got that right.”

“You been here a long time?” He asks as he glances at his cards. Six of spades. Eight of diamonds. Well, he’s at the very end of the table, he’s got time to think.

“My whole life.” She tells him as she motions to the player at the opposite side, deals him another card when he hits and busts him on the next.

Gerry lets his eyes trace over to her cards. Her up-card’s a ten. He focuses on the hole card, grasps for what’s on the other side of it but comes up blank. Damnit. 

“Yeah? How long’ve you worked here?” He continues.

She purses her lips, thinks for a long moment, “Fifteen years? Sixteen, maybe. A long time, that’s for sure.” 

“You like it?”

“It’s a good job. They take care of us.” She says, “Owner’s on the level, which is nice around here. Little eccentric, but a good guy.”

“Oh?” Gerry presses, “What, one too many yachts, or-?”

Jeanette chortles, “One of those collectors, you know? Always looking for this statue or that painting, y’know?” She makes her way around the rest of the table as they speak. Stand. Surrender. Hit, stand. Stand. Hit, hit, bust. Her eyes flick up to Gerry.

Gerry takes a breath, glances down at the deck. This time it’s easier.  _ Three (hearts), three (spades), seven (diamonds) five (hearts) six(spades)ace(hearts)ten- _ he winces and looks away. All right, all right, already.

“Hit.” He tells her, tapping the table. 

Jeanette flips over the next card in the deck. Three of hearts.

“Seventeen.” She notes.

“Hit.” 

Her eyebrows cant. Gerry can see a man in the center of the table lean forward to get a glimpse of the dumbass hitting on a seventeen. Jeanette happily obliges and deals him another card. Three of spades.

“Twenty.” She whistles. 

Gerry holds up a hand, “Stand.”

“Not gonna’ hit on a twenty, too, huh?” The man in the center of the table huffs.

Gerry turns to look him over. He’s an older guy, maybe fifty five, sixty, in an expensive suit. His bright red tie is already loosened, and his face nearly matches it. Gerry drops his gaze down to his hand. Nineteen. Ah.

“Maybe next time.” He offers him a rakish little grin, “Sorry.”

The man rolls his eyes, “Right.”

Jeanette glances between them for a sliver of a moment before overturning her hole card. Six. She grins.

“Guess I’ll be hitting, then.”

Gerry tries, honestly tries, to keep from laughing when she turns over the five, manages to keep back all but a snort.

“Sorry, boys.” Jeanette says as she begins to collect their chips, “That’s blackjack.”

“Well done.” Gerry chuckles.

Jeanette shrugs, “Just math, honey.”

“Never met it.” Gerry quips.

He can feel the man at the center of the table’s eyes on him. He’s shoving another pile of chips into his square, grumbling something under his breath. Gerry rests an elbow on the table to turn his way.

“Something you want to get off your chest?” He shoots.

“You’re awful chatty, buddy.” The man sneers.

Gerry bites back ‘weird, that’s what your wife said, too’ only by the grace of whatever’s left of god. Instead, he shrugs, “That so?”

“Too chatty.” The man grunts, “I don’t know what you do over there, but over here? Keep it down.”

“I think that’s enough, gentlemen.” Jeanette cuts in, “Everyone in?”

Gerry shoots her a grateful glance and nudges a few chips forward. She gives him a brief nod and begins to deal out the next round.  _ Thomas Murphy,  _ his mind chirps as the cards fall,  _ Fifty seven, native of Tom’s River, New Jersey. Investment banker. Husband of Anne, Father of Luke, Rebecca- _ Gerry purses his lips, trying to staunch the flow of information until a flicker of silver light sparks in the corner of his eye. He freezes over his cards. Slowly, he turns his head to look back to the man.

There’s something around his hand. Something he hadn’t Seen before. The most delicate silver thread, winding between his fingers, twining around his wrist. Drifting over his jacket sleeve and off into the distance. It’s loose, barely touching his skin, but as Gerry watches, he can see it make another slow loop around his thumb, tighter now than before.

“What’s your play, sweetie?”

Jeanette’s voice shakes him from his thoughts. He looks to her blankly, only realizing that he hasn’t even touched his hand yet. He doesn’t even glance at it before shaking his head.

“Surrender.”

“Wh- you don’t surrender on a 15, but you won’t play on an eighteen?” Murphy sputters, “The fuck are you on, buddy?”

Honestly, why does everyone in America have to call perfect strangers by pet names? Gerry snorts and pushes his stool back from the table. He gives a quick nod to Jeanette, who stares after him as he turns back towards the floor.

It takes a few moments of knitting his brow and chewing at his lower lip, but eventually, his mind picks up on the silver strand floating off from Murphy’s elbow. Gerry can still hear him cursing as he charges off after its trail.

He keeps his head down, jaw set as he weaves through the crowd on the floor. Back past the poker tables. Past the bar, past the slot machines. He’s nearly out into the lobby again when someone bumps into him. He’s not going that fast, not even jogging, but the impact knocks the wind right out of him. He doubles over, one hand on his chest, and hacks.

“My apologies, bookburner.” The words waft down from above him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Gerry chokes out as Michael leans down to examine his face, “What are you doing here?” Jesus, its shirt matches the carpet. He might throw up.

“I would advise against running.” It tells him.

Gerry feels adrenaline surge into his veins. Eyes wide, he straightens to look up at it. It’s reaching for him with one hand. A long finger comes to rest against his throat. His stomach drops all at once. He can feel the tip of it knick the skin, winces and stumbles back. It’s only as he does that he notices the circle of silver thread hovering where his neck had been, split neatly in two.

“You-” One of his hands flies to his throat, inspecting for damage. Besides the shallow cut made by its fingertip, everything seems intact, “...What was that for?”

Michael shrugs, “You.” It says simply.

Gerry lets out a shaky breath, “I-...thanks. I think.”

“It is my pleasure.” It replies. With a smile that makes Gerry’s teeth hurt, it steps back. 

There’s a door behind it. Had there- there wasn’t one there when he came in, he’s sure of it. He’d specifically checked out entrances and exits, always does when it comes to a place he might need to get out of quick. It’s out of place with the architecture, too. Terribly simple, and an awfully mismatched shade of canary-

Gerry freezes.

“It was you.”

Michael pauses with its hand on the knob, giving him a quizzical glance over its shoulder.

“At my Mum’s shop. It wasn’t paint. It was you.”

A wry, twisting smile crawls over its lips, “Perhaps. Or perhaps you were seeing things.” It coos, and then, without ever seeming to draw the door open, it passes over the threshold and is gone.

“Bastard.” Gerry groans. He runs a fingertip over the small cut on his neck. It’s already closed.

He doesn’t catch sight of the thread again that night. Chalks it up to a potent cocktail of exhaustion and sudden adrenaline. By the time his head hits the pillow, he’s already half-asleep. He dreams in abstractions, colors. Fractals. 

\---

Gerry spends the next day on his laptop, digging up any information he can find on Resorts’ owner. His head is already pounding from the Knowledge of the past evening; the old-fashioned way will have to do. Slower, sure, but a lot less likely to leave him clawing at his temples in the bathroom afterwards.

Perry Crosby. The guy’s got a long record, mostly fancy gallery openings and charity soirees. Has apparently won a shitload of old, expensive weird shit in auctions. Stands to reason. Gerry scans the articles he digs up for any mention of Salesa, but, finding nothing, quickly moves on to the more mundane details.

Seems local, as far as Gerry can tell. Has a little brother in town, too. One Alfred Crosby. They’re seen around the casino from time to time. Sometimes at the adjoining restaurant or nightclub. Gerry tugs his phone from his pocket. It’s Friday. If either of them are going to be at the nightclub, it’ll be tonight or tomorrow night. Besides, it’s as good a start as he’ll get, and it gives him the opportunity to look out for any more strands. 

\---

_ Prohibition _ , the sign over the nightclub glows over the dim entrance. Gerry rolls his eyes. On theme, he supposes. At least, he thinks to himself as he passes the bouncers with ease, he looks a bit less out of place here. It’s far less suits and cocktail dresses, far more sleek black clubwear and tight jeans and...waistcoats with nothing beneath them, and-

Oh.

Well, he’ll fit in perfectly, then. Maybe he’d been wrong to tell Jeanette he was there with his wife after all.

The lights are low, save for the bluish-purple spotlight that rakes back and forth over the growing crowd. He is not  _ categorically  _ a bad dancer, but a youth of chasing Leitners all around the globe seems to have left him on the back foot here, as it were. Still, he manages to twine through the people on the floor with relative dignity until he’s in the center of it all. There, he closes his eyes and breathes.

It’s loud, too loud, a rush of sound and light and information all at once, and for a moment Gerry thinks it might split his head, trying to let it all in. Too much, too much,  _ too much.  _ He claps his hands over his ears. Oh, bloody hell, this was a stupid idea.

It’s a full minute before he can let his hands drop, and then another before he can open his eyes. When he does, he nearly cries out. The air is heavy with silver strands, criss-crossing above him in loops and coils. A tapestry of silken thread. He barely has time to shove past the dancers closest to him before it drops. He can feel the air shift around him as it narrowly misses his shoulder.

It’s lifting itself up into the air again, clusters of strands clasping onto the light fixtures, the ceiling, the walls. The entire thing undulates, almost breathes, as it drifts its way towards him. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course it knows he’s been poking around, it’s the bloody Web. He curses under his breath and makes for the exit. There’s someone in the center of the doorway.

“Move!” Gerry barks as he tries to push the figure to one side. 

A hand closes around his wrist as he squirms past.

“...Michael?” He tries as he glances over his shoulder.

Thomas Murphy stares back at him. He’s bristling with light, now, filaments writhing along his arms, his throat. A handful of them begin to drift towards Gerry’s wrist.

While his childhood education in dancing may have been lackluster, what Gerry does know, with absolute clarity, is how to throw a punch. When his fist connects with Thomas Murphy’s nose, the wet, popping sound that it makes is loud enough to be heard over the pulse of the music. It erupts into a cloudburst of blood, and Murphy’s grip loosens just enough for Gerry to wrench his arm back from him. The bouncer closest to them cries out in surprise and moves for him. Right, of course. They can’t See it.

“Fucked my boyfriend.” Gerry blurts, holding his bloodied hand out in supplication towards the man, “Even now. Going!”

He takes off at a run, both Murphy and the bouncer behind him.

“Shit shit  _ shit _ .” He grits through clenched teeth. Well, it’s not the first time he’s been run out of an establishment, and hopefully it won’t be the last.

Gerry bolts through the lobby and into the restaurant on the opposite side. It’s a bloody casino. There have to be service paths. He can lose them there.

A clamor of shouts ring out as he pushes into the restaurant’s kitchen. He passes the line of cooks, then the dishwashers, eyes scanning the walls. Maintenance entrance, maintenance entrance, maintenance entrance, they have to have a- there it is. He throws the door open and charges into the narrow corridor beyond it.

A woman pushing a trolley gives a yelp of surprise as he darts past her. Behind him, he can still hear voices yelling after him. More, it sounds like, than just the two he had begun with. Fantastic.

His lungs are burning as he sprints down the length of the corridor, taking a wide right around the corner at the end of it and into the next. The lights are dimmer in this one, and slowly, Gerry becomes aware of the vague greenish glow coming from his own hands. He spares a moment to look down at them, only to find the now-glistening pupils of his tattoos Looking right back. Well, fuck. Now he really can’t get himself caught.

The hall winds again, another right, and Gerry can see that the door at the other end of it is already open. Two men in security uniforms are trotting through it. He skids to a halt.

The options are slim. There’s a closet door on one side of the hallway. He could barricade himself inside, if it really came down to it? Another door opposite it looks into the laundry facilities. Could be an exit on the other side, but he can’t see it from here, and if there’s not, he’ll be caught out in the open in no time. What he really needs is-

He pauses. Murphy is charging around the corner, now; Gerry can see the silver light of the threads that surround him reflecting off the walls. From the other side of the hallway, the security guards are closing in. Gerry takes a deep breath.

“Michael!” He shouts up into the air, “If you really want to be friends, now’s the bloody time!”

There’s a creak behind him.

There’s no sign of Michael. At least, not the figure that calls itself Michael. But there it is, bright and cheery in the center of the hallway, seemingly attached to nothing in particular. The door.

“Right.” Gerry exhales as he grips the knob with one hand, “Right.”

He swings it open, and everything blurs at once.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing that Gerry realizes, when his senses come back to him, is that gravity is not in the same place. Direction? Whichever. The second is that he is vomiting.

The motel carpet smells like cigarette smoke and stale seawater. It does nothing to stem the tide of his nausea as he rolls onto one side to keep himself from choking. One shaking hand scrabbles back to snatch his hair out of the way.

“F-Fuck.” He stammers between volleys, “Oh, Christ, that fucking-”

He surrenders the rest of his motel vending machine dinner to the floor before he can catch his breath. Groaning, he slouches back against the foot of one of the beds. The entire room is spinning. Fuck, the entire  _ world  _ is spinning.

“Hello, my friend.”

Gerry starts, gaze snapping up to find the source of the words. Michael is stretched out on its stomach on the bed above him, chin perched on its interwoven hands. 

“Think I might’ve preferred a night in jail.” Gerry moans.

“I could take you back, if you like.” It offers. 

“Pass.”

“Your choice.”

Gerry smears a hand across his mouth and stumbles to his feet. The floor is- well, it’s not anything it hasn’t seen before, he’s fairly certain. But he should probably at least attempt to clean it up. He lurches into the bathroom for the bin and the box of tissues as Michael peers at him curiously.

“You did not know that it knew.” It says, eyes following him as he sets to cleaning the floor.

“I- wh-” Gerry’s head is still swimming, “Oh, the- the Web. I- no.”

“Do you not serve the Ceaseless Watcher?” It questions.

Gerry winces, “It’s ...complicated. I told you, I don’t work at the Institute. Just with them. Sometimes. It’s not like it is for Gertrude. It’s...finicky.”

“Ah. Then it  _ did _ choose you.”

“Shut up.” Gerry grumbles as he shoves a crumpled wad of tissues into the bin, “S’not my fault.”

“I did not say that it was.”

Michael’s voice is softer than he’d expected, almost human. He looks up from his work, blinking.

“...Right.” He agrees warily.

Michael purses what passes for its lips and falls silent. Gerry takes the opportunity to return the sullied bin to the bathroom and begin scrubbing his hands to within an inch of boiled. Outside, he can hear Michael hiss quietly to itself.

“Are you not going to thank me, bookburner?” It asks after a moment, and the hard lilt has returned to its words.

“I don’t know, are you ever just going to call me Gerry?” He retorts, drying his hands on one of the overbleached towels as he returns to the room.

“Gerry.” It repeats dubiously. 

The sounds are foreign in its voice. Gerry shudders, “That’s my name.”

“Names are useless things.” Michael sniffs, “Circumscript.”

Gerry rolls his eyes and collapses down onto the other bed, “Yes, yes, I get it, you’re very mysterious. Incomprehensible, even.”

“I do not know whether to take offense that you think you are lying or be flattered that you would lie to me.” Michael muses.

“What was it you said? ‘Your choice’?” Gerry retorts. He rolls onto one side to paw through his duffel bag for painkillers, “God, my fucking head…”

Michael watches, shifting eyes tracing across the motion of his hands, “...Why do you pretend that you do not fear me?”

“First of all,” Gerry begins as he throws back two pills and swallows, “I don’t know if you expected me to gift wrap myself like some kind of edible arrangement for you, but if so, you’re out of luck. And second, there’s a difference between rational and irrational fear. I know what things like you are capable of. That’s a rational fear. So’s death. You still don’t see me raving about it every time I think of it. S’practical.”

Michael wrinkles its nose, “Oh, don’t, you’ll spoil the taste.”

Gerry laughs, slumping onto his back, covering both eyes with his palms, “Jesus. All right. My turn. If my brand of fear tastes so bad, why did you save me? That’s twice.”

“I am not hungry.” Michael tells him.

Gerry lifts one hand to glance its way, “You’re not even feeding on me?”

“There are many contained within my corridors. I do not need your curdled fear, bookburner.”

“Gerry.”

“...Gerry.”

“So...why?” Gerry asks again.

“A very dangerous question.” It sighs.

“Why? Is something making you do it? Compelling you?” Gerry forges onward, “Am  _ I  _ compelling you?”

“I- you-” Its face shifts and splits until Gerry can’t tell which set of neon-colored eyes to look into, which mouth is speaking, “Would you know, if you were?”

“Maybe.” Gerry shrugs, “Like I said, sometimes it’s tricky.”

“You are a very curious creature.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Michael watches him for a long moment. Then, long arms unfurling, it slinks closer. Gerry’s pulse skips as it crawls into the bed over him. He stares up at it wordlessly, frozen as it examines his face studiously. The dull ache in his temples throbs beneath its gaze.

Then, it kisses him.

It’s difficult to conceive, both the action itself and how, precisely, Michael is doing so, but Gerry knows that it’s kissing him. His lips prickle and sting, and somewhere in the back of his mouth he can taste something like candied violets. Or maybe it’s candied violet. He can’t be sure. The small hairs on his arms lift up as if electrified.

It’s over as quickly as it began. Michael draws back, its panoply of roiling eyes blinking. Then, all at once, in a rush of color and spindly limbs, it’s gone. Gerry hears a door slamming distantly, echoing in his mind. He lifts a startled set of fingertips to his mouth. His lips are still tingling.

\---

He’s not going to think about it. He just- he won’t. That’ll be that. It’ll be easy. 

Gerry rolls over in bed, groaning into the pillow. The yellowing alarm clock on the nightstand reads seven thirty. Normally, he’d never be up this early. On any other day, he’d happily stay in bed past ten. But he can’t sleep. Hasn’t slept, really, except in little snatches here and there.

Shoving the covers to one side, he heaves himself to his feet. Fuck it. If he has to be awake at this ungodly hour, the least he can get out of it is some breakfast. He stumbles his way into his boots and out into the hall.

The corridor is deserted, save for a crumpled ball of duct tape and crepe paper that sits forlornly outside one of the doors. Well, at least somebody in the place had a good night. Gerry shuffles past it and to the weary vending machines that have provided most of his meals for the last two days. He shoves a fistful of coins into one of them with a furious indignation that has most of them dropping out of the bottom slot almost immediately, then curses and repeats the process until he hears the last one clunk into place. It’s enough to buy him about five packets of crisps, which will have to do it, because he frankly doesn’t have the energy to fight with the damned thing any longer.

He polishes off the first before he even reaches his door, cramming the empty packet into the back pocket of his jeans. The rest he throws onto the tousled bed before toeing off his untied boots and dropping back down into the sheets himself. 

What the fuck is he doing? He’s in a dying city in a foreign country, probably on some kind of wanted list, now, subsisting on crisps and- and  _ kissing things.  _ No, no, that’s not fair. It kissed him, not the other way around. God, had he kissed it back, though?

Nope, no. He’s not thinking about it. He needs a plan. A new plan. A better plan, apparently. One with considerably more breaking and entering, it seems. Not that it’s hard to break into, oh, a heavily guarded American casino, right?

Or he could walk through a door.

Absolutely not. Absolutely not. Once was bad enough. It had been an emergency. This isn’t an emergency, this is his own piss-poor planning. And after-

Gerry pinches the bridge of his nose. Focus, focus, focus. 

A flat number. He just needs a flat number, really. Either Crosby would do, he imagines. Find the man himself? Perfect. Grab the brother? Trade him for the book. He can make that work. Fill in the details later. Just the flat number. All he needs to Know.

He squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth. Tries to clear his mind. To feel the hunger, the greed. To let it fill him, flood him, overflow him.

It’s blurrier than usual, as if there’s some sort of diaphanous film between him and the rush of information that moves to crowd into his mind all at once. A tilting, almost swaying sensation burbles up in his stomach. Gerry grits his teeth and does his best to ignore it.

_ Resorts Permanent Residences, Number 1610, Heather Roberts, age 45, patent lawyer- _ right, at least he’s in the building. He furrows his brows.  _ Number 1611, Jason Hernandez, 68, neuroscientist, husband of Luke-  _ not the right floor, perhaps? He grasps higher.  _ Number 1712, Megan Anderson, age 37- _ no,  _ Number 1713, Bartholomew Hendershot-  _ no, no, come on,  _ Number 1714, Alfred Crosby- _ there. There we are. Gerry gasps for air and slumps back into the bed. Snapshots of other residents slip through his consciousness, ages and names and addresses, but he brushes them aside to hold tight to number 1714. Corner flat, no surprise there. Not the top floor, although he supposes Alfred doesn’t technically own the building, so perhaps he’s merely subject to the whims of the older Crosby. Either way, he’s not about to make that climb.

Gerry massages at his temples with a sigh. Right. He can’t just walk in the front door any longer. He can’t get in the windows. That leaves subterfuge. Which, given the Entity involved, still puts him at a distinct disadvantage. It’s not like he has any local favors to call in, either, not if he’s not going to-

He’s not. He won’t. Bloody hell, keep it together.

Right. Some shopping it is.

\---

It’s not that Gerry never wears his hair up. Sometimes it’s just too hot. Sometimes it’s safer. But to wear it up for this - because some rich fuck’s dress code regulations demand it- is, in his opinion, utter bullshit. And the starched shirt and bow tie might as well just properly have at it and strangle him to death. He wonders how people do it. At least the waistcoat’s all right. Maybe even a little Depeche Mode, if you squint hard enough.

He’s not going to fool the Web. He knows that much.But the humans in the place, the officers themselves, the other employees, that’s the trick. No doubt they’ll have orders. The security cameras are- well, those are easy enough. Just the people. Just the regular, everyday, human people. He can be one of those for at least a few minutes, can’t he? He keeps his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks and does his best to stand up straight as he strides through the side entrance.

The place is crawling with them. Rolled out the red carpet for him, have they? God, maybe he’d have been better off with the Lonely. Would’ve spared him the trouble of dressing the part, at the very least.

He winds through the staff area with his eyes carefully level. Just another swatch of black and white. Nothing to see here. A glance or two, but nothing he can’t nod and smile off. He knows he’s really hit it when a woman with a small dog in her purse in the lobby asks him to bring her a luggage trolley.

“All in use at the moment, I’m afraid.” He offers, “Let me find you one upstairs.”

She sighs, but nods, and he’s on his way.

Even the elevator is lined with faux-marble. Gerry snorts to himself and hits the button for the fourth floor. It shudders up past the meeting rooms and health spa as his mind reaches out for the security cameras of each floor.  _ Look this way, watch that way, _ he guides their eyes to and fro, towards walls and windows and ceilings. They whir eagerly into place. He’s got at least a couple minutes, he hopes, until they hit on someone in the know, someone who recognizes what disobedient cameras means and comes gunning for him. No doubt there’ll already be some poor, webbed-up sods already on the move.

The doors give a cheery ping as the elevator hits the fourth floor. Gerry is already balling his fists as he passes through them. He swerves around the first corner, following the polished door plates as they tick higher and higher. 1709, 1710, 1711. Somewhere distant, lower down in the hotel, he hears an alarm go off. Right, there’s his timer, then. 1712, 1713. He hits the end of the hall.

The strike plate of the door splinters clean off the frame as soon as his heel impacts the handle. So much for ‘renovations’. From inside, he can hear a startled yelp, followed by hurried scrambling. He swings the door aside and pushes into the flat.

There’s a man in the living room, somewhere in his mid-60s with a leathery tan and hair slicked back tight against his scalp. He looks as if he’s just jumped up from the sofa, holding both hands up towards Gerry in supplication as he closes in on him. 

“Is it money? I can get you money, I swear.” He offers immediately as Gerry backs him towards the living room wall, “Drugs?”

“Not interested.” Gerry chuckles as the man’s back hits the wall, “Alfred Crosby?”

He winces, “Oh god, you’re one of those- those bounty hunter guys, like on TLC.”

“We don’t have time.  _ Are you Alfred Crosby _ ?” Gerry barks.

“Yes!” The man gasps, flattening his body further into the faux-marble, “What is it, what do you want?”

“Books.” Gerry says, “A book, specifically.  _ The Natural History of Selborne. _ Seen it?”

Crosby’s stares blankly, “B...Books?”

“Your brother. He collects things. Weird things.” Gerry grunts, “Brought home a book recently?”

“I- yes? I mean, I think so?” Crosby stammers, “He goes to these auctions, comes back with- with loads of shit he says is ‘unique’, I-I- ...just weird shit, man. He’s probably got a hundred old books up there, take your pick.”

Gerry’s grits his teeth. It’d better be the only Leitner, or this job has just become a lot more lethal, “Up where?”

“The Tower Suite.” Crosby tells him.

Gerry gives him a sharp nod, “Listen to me very carefully. I am not going to repeat myself. We are going to the Tower Suite together. If your brother is there, you and I  _ both  _ need to be very careful. It might’ve already gotten a hold on him.”

Crosby’s eyes widen, “Wh-what might’ve?”

“The book.”

“The...book?”

“Yes, the bloody book.” Gerry glances back over his shoulder as the sound of footsteps begin to fill the corridors, “You stay with me, I keep you safe. You try anything funny, it’s not going to work out well for you. You see me hit a guy, trust that he deserved it. Everyone else, you keep out of my way. Then, I do my best to keep your brother alive. Got it?”

Alfred is shaking, staring at him, “G...Got it.”

“Right.” Gerry leans back, straightening, “Off we go, then.”

He turns, allowing Alfred to pass him only by a few inches before falling into step behind him. The first security team is on them as soon as they turn the corner into the main hall. 

“Just- just hold up, boys.” Alfred sputters quickly, “I- my friend here and I, we’re just gonna’...gonna’ have a nice chat with Perry.”

Gerry scans each of the gathered officers for threads. Nothing. They could still get lucky, yet. 

“Move.” He murmurs under his breath.

Alfred starts, then nods and takes a tentative step forward, “We’re...we’re going now. Let us through.”

“You heard the man.” Gerry barks.

Slowly, the members of the team press themselves back against the walls to allow them passage down the hall. Alfred steps through them with a nervous smile. Gerry sighs with relief, then urges him forward with a nudge of his shoulder.

“Faster. No time. Take the stairs.” He orders.

Alfred pauses beside the stairwell door to look back over his shoulder, “R-right. Hey, this book, though-” 

Gerry groans, “Bad news. Violent stuff. The reason people are dying downstairs. Now  _ go. _ ”

“Whoa whoa whoa, it-”

Gerry shoves him bodily into the stairwell, then past him onto the stairs. Pulse pounding in his ears, he takes them two at a time. Alfred scrambles to keep up.

“How the fuck does a book kill people?!” He cries, “How does that even work?”

“You’re about to find out.” Gerry shouts back. 

The entire top floor of the building is a cacophony of white and gold. Mirrored walls, pillars, curtains, tremendous potted plants. Gerry sneers as they race across the tiled floor.

“Tell me where his suite is.” He demands. An unintended crackle of static pours from his throat.

“Through the main hall, past the lounge, the double doors on the left.” Alfred supplies immediately, then blinks, “I- hold on, what the fuck was that?”

“Later.” Gerry waves it off.

Alfred has fallen still behind him, “...What the fuck are you, dude?”

“The right kind of monster.” Gerry snaps, “And probably your only chance. You stay here, I can’t watch you. Whatever happens to you is on you.”

“Wh- Jesus Christ.” Alfred pales, “I-.... I’m coming, I’m coming.”

“Thought so.”

He doesn’t need the Beholding to know that something is wrong behind the curtained glass double doors. The lights are out, but something inside the room glows dimly from within. The air around them has grown cool and wet. Gerry swallows.

“Stay behind me.” He commands, “Do  _ not  _ run, you’ll just catch its attention. Do exactly as I say.”

He doesn’t catch exactly what Alfred says in return. Sounds more like prayer than a response. Gerry doesn’t blame him.

He sets a few fingertips on one of the door handles. It sinks easily beneath his touch. Right. ‘Come into my parlor’ it is, then. He twists the handle and gently sets the door swinging inward.

The hinges barely whisper as it falls open. Inside the foyer, tendrils of silver thread swirl and entangle with one another throughout the length of the hall. He motions for Alfred to follow and creeps forward. The trail drifts deeper into the flat, through the kitchen, where strands have begun to find corners to cling to, to the living room, its windows bound up in hundreds and hundreds of them that blot out any hint of the light from outside. They converge en masse on one of the door frames, bright enough that looking at them stings Gerry’s eyes despite the meek illumination they offer the rest of the room.

“What’s in there?” He hisses to Alfred.

“O-Office, it’s his office.” Alfred croaks.

Gerry shuts his eyes.

He can hear Alfred give a choked gasp from behind him, can See - removed from himself, now - the way that all of his various pupils begin to dilate. Whatever is in there, it won’t be hiding long.

“Perry Crosby?” He calls, voice hissing and crackling.

There’s a chittering shriek from inside the darkened office. Something scrapes across the floor. Gerry squares his shoulders.

“Tell me where it is, Perry.” He urges. The static is strong enough to make his ears pop, “Where is  _ The Natural History of Selborne? _ ”

The voice that pours forth from the office is a hushed whisper, the rush of thousands of tiny bodies swarming up against one another, “Why, it’s right here. Come and see.”

Gerry grits his teeth, “How about you come out and join us?”

It’s not laughter, exactly. A dry, rasping thing, more like a cough, like brittle leaves in the wind. But whatever the thing is, it makes its point. Then, Gerry can hear it move. It’s quiet at first, just a few very soft taps. Then a slow, measured grinding, something sharp shifting over the tiled floor. Gerry makes for the knife tucked into the small of his back beneath the waistcoat. His fingers have just brushed the hilt when he sees the first leg.

It’s bright, threads woven tight into the shape of muscle and chitin, many-jointed and tipped in two sliver-point claws that carve slender divots into the tile beneath it as it steps forward. Another joins it, then another and another, until Gerry can finally see the true shape of it. 

The back of Perry Crosby’s body is facing the floor, flesh squeezed and contorted by loop after cruel loop of silken strands into the bulging shape of thorax and abdomen. His skin is blood-tight and darkened, straining to contain him in his new swollen shape. His head hangs back, jaw slack and mouth bristling with sharpened teeth, chin and throat dotted with wide, black eyes. Every limb is entirely shrouded in thread, splitting into two at the joint and continuing downward for another meter beyond its logical end. 

To his credit, Alfred does not scream. Gerry hears his breath hitch, hears him gag, but nothing further. Good on him. He’s about to draw the knife when he feels it seized from its hiding place by another hand. Perhaps not so good.

“Alfred?” He questions, eyes still locked on the creature that was once Perry Crosby.

The arm that lifts the knife to his throat has a single silver thread around the wrist.

“Fuck.” Gerry breathes. 

Several things happen at once. Gerry drops to his knees in one smooth motion just as Alfred moves to carve into him. The creature in front of them roars and arcs back two of its long limbs to strike. And then, something  _ howls.  _ Except it isn’t a howl. It’s the shrill screech of metal on metal, the frenzied wail of electrical feedback. It feels like it curdles the marrow inside of Gerry’s bones. Color surges past him, and then Michael is on Crosby, unfathomable claws drawing a neon arc through the dark.

Gerry takes the opportunity to slam an elbow back into Alfred’s knee. Alfred snarls and crumples, and Gerry is on his feet. It’s too dark to see where the knife has landed, but the individual strands that tug Alfred’s limbs into motion are easy to make out. It must’ve only just gotten to him when Perry came into the room. There’s still time.

“Michael!” Gerry shouts as he ducks a fist thrown his way, “Take it out to the main hall! It’s - there’s mirrors everywhere out there!”

There’s no response, at least not one that Gerry can comprehend, but over the reverberating laughter and the sound of breaking glass, he can hear a scraping and scrabbling that begins, slowly, to make for the foyer. He refocuses his own efforts on Alfred. Find the knife. Cut the threads. Get the book. If he’s not dead by then.

He rakes the floor with his Gaze, ignores the torrent of information granite and polish and architecture that flows over him until the knife is in his Sights. It’s on the other side of Alfred, but it’s not far. If he can get past him, he can get a hold of it.

Alfred swings for him again, this time with the other arm. His hand is barely curled into a fist, and Gerry can see regret in the strained grimace on his lips as the limb jerks without his consent. He ducks in to take it in the shoulder, ignores the burst of pain it brings to jam a knee into Alfred’s gut. Alfred convulses, gagging, and Gerry sidesteps him to dart for the knife. It costs him a kick to the side that makes his ribs sing, but he gets his hands around the hilt.

Scrambling backwards, he squares himself off against Alfred once more. The book is smart, fast, but the body it’s puppeting is a lot older than Gerry’s. He manages to clip the first string in a few neat passes of the blade. A glimmer light returns to Alfred’s eyes.

“Fight.” Gerry orders immediately, “Alfred, you have to fight it with me.”

He can see Alfred’s free hand begin to judder and shake. The fingers twitch, slowly at first, then with more certainty, and Gerry watches the limb begin to paw at the opposite wrist.

“Good.” He exhales, “Keep it busy for me.”

He can hear wood splintering further down the hall as he makes for the thread clinging to Alfred’s ankle. He earns a cuff to one side of his face that splits his lip for the trouble. Growling and spitting blood, he slices through half of Alfred’s pant leg and the strand at once.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, man!” Alfred blurts at once. His voice is tight in his chest, “I-I can’t-”

“Just concentrate!” Gerry grates as he scrabbles for the other ankle. Alfred’s foot tramps on his free hand, and Gerry snarls, “Fuck’s sake!”

“Shit shit shit, sorry!” He yelps.

Gerry simply seizes him by the expensive loafer and cleaves the binding open. Breath heavy and harsh, he returns to his feet. Alfred is still swinging at him, certainly, but with most of his body weight leaning back, now, holding his fist back from connecting. Gerry catches it on a hopeless haymaker and snips the find thread.

“Go to the bedroom and lock yourself in until I come for you.” He pants as Alfred staggers backwards.

“Right.” Alfred wheezes and obeys.

Gerry rounds back on the office door. Somewhere far away, he can tell that his body aches. That he’ll spend tomorrow in a muddy haze of exhaustion and painkillers. But with his pulse pounding in his temples, he can barely feel it yet. He lurches past the gathered mass of web and into the office.

There on the once-elegant, now claw-stripped mahogany desk, sits  _ The Natural History of Selborne.  _ There’s a heavy bookmark holding it open to the first page. He knows better than to feel relief, won’t until the book is far from here and reduced to ashes. Still, as he forces it closed and retrieves two leather straps from his pocket to keep it that way, he can’t help but allow himself a long sigh.

Right, then. That’s that. Except for-

He can’t hear anything outside.

Oh fuck, oh fuck,  _ fuck.  _ He tucks the book and knife into his waistcoat and barrels back through the flat, past the shattered double doors and devastated lounge and out into the main hall. The walls are gouged and scored, spattered with blood and- Gerry squints - light? Something like light, but it’s liquid, somehow, dribbling down the mirrors and columns. There’s no sign of Perry Crosby, or whatever it was that he had metamorphosed into. 

Instead, crouched in the center of the room and less intelligible than he’s ever seen it, is Michael. Lacerations criss-cross its face and arms, dripping with the same wet light. What mirrors remain reflect impossible angles sharp with bone.

He strides to kneel beside it, “Jesus Christ, are you all right?”

It gives a hiss that rattles his teeth and wheels on him. One mangled hand wraps around his throat. Gerry freezes. 

“I think that I should probably kill you now, bookburner.” It slurs, “It would be for the best.”

Gerry swallows, “...You kill Perry Crosby?”

Its gaze seems to simmer, “Is that what it was called?”

Gerry winces, “...Yeah. That’s- that was his name.”

“Who will remember yours, I wonder?” Michael murmurs.

“Honestly?” Gerry gives a bitter little laugh, “Probably only Gertrude, and that’s only if I’m lucky.”

Michael’s fingers seem to sharpen around his neck, “No.” It snarls, “The Archivist will make your name disappear, bookburner. She will erase you, the way she has erased countless others before you. You are already becoming something more; you will not even merit a citation in her files.”

“She- what?” Gerry blinks. 

“Getrude Robinson is not an archive. She is a mausoleum with no epitaphs.” Michael spits, “But-” Its face smooths into a smile with too many teeth, “-she will not bury you there, bookburner. I will. Here.”

Gerry watches it evenly, studies its face, “Because you-”

It recoils, holding him at arm’s length, “You will not Know me.”

“I don’t. I’m not.” He reassures it quietly, “I just-...you came, and-”

“And when you are gone, I will not need to come again.” It hisses through its teeth, “I no longer find you interesting, Gerard Keay.”

Gerry searches for its eyes in the whorl of color and sense that is its face, “Because you find me something else?” He finally chances, then coughs as Michael flings him to the floor and yanks its arm back as if burned.

“You are- I am-” It stammers, burying its face in its deformed hands and growling a sound like a guttering tailpipe, “I am a  _ thing. _ What would a thing have to consider about you, bookburner? What  _ right _ does a thing have to think?”

Gerry pauses, eyes widening, “...But you haven’t always been.” He breathes.

Michael grits its teeth, hands scrabbling back through its hair, “I have always been  _ some _ thing. I have not always been  _ this  _ thing.”

“You were a person, once.” Gerry presses, “You- you still think things. Want things. Feel things.”

It snarls at him, a scattered digital shriek, and Gerry takes a step closer.

“Michael.” He whispers and extends a hand towards it.

It stills, rumbling wordlessly beneath its breath. Its eyes are fixed on him. He can’t see them, but the pounding in his temples tells him he still has its attention.

“Hey.” He tries gently, “Let’s get out of here, okay?”

Michael purses its lips, “You expect me to vivisect myself for you. Scrape apart the bone and drywall for you to put your hands into. Open for you.”

“I mean, yeah, I wouldn’t object to a way out, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“I was not referring to the door.”

“I-” Gerry huffs a sigh, “Fine. If you don’t want to, I’ll go on my own. I can just- I’ll go get Alfred.”

He turns to leave, but Michael circles a hand around his wrist. Its fingers are deliberate, gentle, “Do not.”

“Then tell me what you want me to do!” Gerry exclaims.

Michael chuckles listlessly, “You can’t slake your hunger using me, bookburner. My will would make a rather bitter meal.”

“I’m not-” Gerry groans, “God damnit. You’re really- you’re fucking impossible, do you know that?”

“Yes.”

He catches it by the collar of its abhorrent shirt with both hands. It should be lighter, he thinks in some remote corner of his mind. It doesn’t matter. He’s still punch drunk and stronger than he knows what to do with, and its claws skitter across the tile as he yanks it to himself and kisses his fury into its mouth.

“Fucking-” He grates against its dizzying lips as he seizes them over and over, “- _ absurd _ .”

Michael is kissing back, now, in between little whimpers that make Gerry’s breath catch. He grips a fistful of its hair to tug its head back, plays his teeth against its long throat. Michael shudders beneath the attention, and its body bows close to his. He doesn’t draw back until his mouth has left a dark whorl of color just below its ear. He’s opening his mouth to speak when a voice calls out from somewhere behind them.

“H...Hello?” It’s muffled, still in the decimated flat.

Gerry cringes, “God damnit, I told him to stay in the bedroom. Out here, Alfred.” He raises his voice to call, “S’clear.”

“Oh, thank God!”

Gerry returns his gaze to Michael’s flushed, drifting face, “We should, uh, probably get a move on, yeah?”

Michael laughs, and both of them tumble through the door beneath their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go! I can practically taste Halloween from here. (Come be spooky with me at clutchhedonist.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for the lateness! Halloween was both delightful and A Lot.

Gerry narrowly manages to cling to the contents of his stomach as he plummets sideways into his hotel room. He skids across the carpet, comes to a stop with a thud against the nightstand. Michael steps out of the door behind him.

“Right, thanks for that.” Gerry grumbles as he inspects one rugburned elbow. 

“You’re very welcome.” Michael grins.

It crouches down beside him, taking his arm in one hand. Gerry watches as it inspects his elbow, eyes narrowing. A startlingly long tongue slithers from its mouth and lathes, just once, over the wound. Gerry stares. Almost immediately, his mouth feels as if it’s full of pop rocks, but to his surprise, the sting does fade.

“What are you- that’s-” He shudders, “...Right.” Eyes slowly meandering back into focus, he looks down over Michael’s torn flesh, “What about you?”

It follows his gaze down to its own body, “They will fade.”

“I mean, do you need- I have bandages.” Gerry tries.

A crooked smears across Michael’s mouth, “It would be difficult to put them in place, I’m afraid.”

Gerry snorts and rises, reaching for his duffel bag, “Watch me.”

It takes a half hour, and by the end of it, Gerry has a migraine that he’s not sure any amount of ibuprofen will shake. Michael sits silently through it, save for the occasional quaver of pain when he moves one of its unreasonable limbs in a too-practical direction. It watches his hands, mostly, face indecipherable when Gerry can catch a steady glimpse of it at all.

“There.” Gerry finally groans as he sets aside the roll of medical tape, “Done.”

Michael lifts one angular hand to inspect his work. Its blurry fingers drift in and out of the bounds of the bandaging. He watches it squint, watches its brows furrow, and the hand slowly begins to reshape itself, elongated fingers shuddering smaller and smaller until they’re nearly human. Michael wrinkles its nose and lets it fall beside him. It turns its face, now almost entirely intelligible save for the way its pupils seem far too deep, to Gerry.

“Is this acceptable?” It asks. 

Gerry blinks, “What?”

“This shape.” Michael says.

Gerry leans back, stifles a snort, “Are you asking me if this body looks good on you?”

Michael purses its lips, “You do not have to mock me if you don’t like it.”

“What? No, no, I like it, of course I like it.” Gerry supplies quickly, “It’s, uh. Easy on the eyes. I-Oh. No, I didn’t mean it like-”

Michael is laughing too loudly for him to continue. Gerry rolls his eyes. It shouldn’t be comforting that its laugh still echoes, even when, from a distance, he might mistake it for human. It’s not, right? It’s not comfortable. Just...familiar. 

“Shut it.” Gerry huffs, nudging his shoulder against its. It grins at him, almost startling on its human-adjacent face, and Gerry sobers, “You, uh. You know that you don’t have to do that, right?”

Michael cocks its head to one side, “Have to do what?”

“This.” Gerry makes a vague motion towards it, “I mean, it doesn’t hurt as much, I guess, but that’s not. That’s not really a problem. Plenty of things hurt.”

Michael scrutinizes his face, unspeaking, for a long moment, “...You don’t prefer this?”

“It’s not bad.” Gerry shrugs, “It’s just - do  _ you  _ like it?”

“It is one minor agony among many others like it.”

“Well, that’s definitely not a yes.” Gerry says.

“It is also not a no.” Michael reminds him.

Right. Sure. Maybe pain isn’t always a bad thing. Gerry does his best to catalog that information into a place where it does not immediately cry out for more suggestive attention. 

“All I’m saying is that it’s, y’know. Just us.” He presses past the thought, “You don’t have to. Not on my account, at least.”

Michael takes a deep breath, “...I see.” It rises abruptly to its feet, “You should rest. The Mother was unkind to you.”

Gerry stumbles up beside it, straightening his rumpled waistcoat, “Right. I should- Right.” He glances between Michael and the bed, “You, uh. You could stay. If you wanted. Get some rest.”

Michael follows his gaze, “I do not sleep.” 

“Oh.” Gerry feels heat rising in his cheeks, “Right. Well, then.”

“...But I suppose it does not matter where I wait for the wounds to wane.” It continues.

Gerry grins and fists a hand in its shirtfront. Michael lets him heave it down onto the bed with little hesitation. Gerry toes off his shoes, shucks his waistcoat, tugs the worn duvet up around the both of them. He can feel Michael shudder as he snakes his arms around its waist to pull it closer.

“Bookburner-” It breathes.

“Gerry.”

“...Gerry.” 

“What is it?” He asks as he reaches out to tuck a curl behind its ear.

Michael’s face pixellates briefly. It reaches for him in return, halting and slow. Gerry keeps himself still until its arms are looped over his shoulders, and it shivers once more.

“Nothing that I am was made to be good at...things like this.” It admits quietly. 

Gerry shifts closer, until they’re pressed into one another, “We’ll figure it out.”

Michael drops its forehead onto his shoulder. He can feel its body begin to unspool against his, limbs elongating and twisting until Gerry is tangled inextricably against it, “I was also not made to be fathomed.”

“Well, now, that’s just a challenge, isn’t it?” Gerry smirks.

It laughs, soft and reverberatory against the hollow of his neck, and Gerry lets his eyes fall shut.

\---

He awakens to a hissing sound, Michael’s hands hurried and indelicate, shaking his shoulders.

“Bookburner.” It barks, “Up.”

“Wh-...ngh, what?” Gerry moans. The room has grown dark around them. He scrubs at his eyes and fumbles for his phone. 

“Not now.” Michael grits through its teeth, “It is waking.”

“What is?” Gerry is alert immediately, hand flying for his knife before remembering that the waistcoat holding it is laying discarded on the floor. 

Michael sits up, and when it does, Gerry can see flecks of dull light reflected in its eyes. He whirls quickly, bracing himself. On the ground behind them, slender tendrils of light have begun to slither from between the closed pages of  _ The Natural History of Selborne.  _

“ _ Shit. _ ” is all that Gerry has time to bite out before one of them seizes him around the elbow and drags him bodily off the bed.

They’re snarling in around him before he can distinguish up from down. Gerry struggles to right himself, to crawl out of reach of their grip, but they’re clinging around his ankles, now, keeping him from getting any further than a few inches from the bed. Above him, he can hear Michael screech. He rolls onto his back.

It’s suspended above the bed, twined in hundreds of strands. They wriggle between the bandages and its skin, burrow into its wounds, ply them open anew. Gerry can do nothing but watch as they clutch and compress around its body. 

“Just get out of here!” Gerry cries.

“I  _ can’t _ .” It gives a shattered, frantic laugh, “It’s pu-... _ hhk _ …it’s p-pulling me apart.”

It roils, thrashes, but grows only more coherent, until the strands are wound around a figure that is terrifying in its mundanity. Michael howls like a nightmare. The book is straining the leather straps binding it shut, more and more strands emerging from it, twisting and yanking.

Gerry digs his nails into the carpet to buy himself purchase, drags himself another agonizing inch across the floor. Fuck taking it somewhere safer to deal with it, this thing ends now. His lighter, he realizes, is still in his jacket pocket on the other bed. There’s no way he’s getting all the way there like this. Above him, something squelches, and liquid luminescence spatters down onto the floor around him. There’s no time, there’s no time, there’s no bloody  _ time- _

Gerry pauses. Then, taking a deep breath, he lets go.

The threads haul him towards the book. He stretches out one leg, then the other, braces himself on both nightstand cabinets to keep it from devouring him entirely.

“Just hold on, Michael.” He bites out. It gags up a forlorn cackle in reply.

Gerry can feel the strands around him tightening, heaving him closer to the book itself. One of the buckles is open, now, and the thing quivers and bucks against the floor. Just a little closer. He clenches his jaw and lets one hand be towed forward, yanks it aside at the last moment to close around the door handle of the ancient microwave. Gathering all his strength, he pries it open, and, releasing one foothold, kicks the book inside. The other hand smacks for the buttons until he’s set it for several minutes, and then, grin creeping across his face, he sets it humming.

The tendrils around him begin to flail. Over and over, they lash him down against the floor. His vision goes hazy as the smell of smoke begins to permeate the stale motel air. He can hear sizzling, scratching,  _ screaming _ as a dark cloud begins to billow from the microwave’s strained exhaust fan. The threads around him loosen, and blood floods back into his arms and legs.

“M-Michael?” Gerry stammers, lightheaded. Something thuds down onto the bed. Gerry paws one shaking hand up over the light-soaked covers, “Michael…”

The microwave sparks violently, and the last of the silver light around his limbs dissipates. The smell of burning paper is unmistakable. Somewhere overhead, the fire alarm begins to wail. Gerry dimly feels droplets of water pelt down onto him from the ceiling. 

“I do not think I like New Jersey.”

The voice is faint, exhausted, but it brings the breath rushing back into Gerry’s lungs, “Jesus. Michael.”

“I am here.” It croaks, “Also elsewhere.” Gerry feels a set of long, misshapen fingers shifting to touch his own.

“Good.” Gerry drapes the opposite arm over his eyes, “...You gonna’ make it?”

“I am not alive, bookburner.” Michael chortles tiredly.

“Right. Great. You gonna’ stay that way?”

“For now, it seems.”

Gerry allows himself a minute or so to breathe, scan his body for fresh injuries. Nothing too severe, as far as he can tell. Maybe a couple bruised ribs. One of his ankles got pretty badly twisted at one point, and his nose is definitely bleeding. But nothing’s broken, at least. Belatedly, he hoists himself upright to glance into the microwave. It houses only a smoldering heap of ash. He sighs with relief and turns toward the bed. 

Michael peers up at him, bloodied but intact, “Hello.”

“Hey.” Gerry leans over to press a kiss to its forehead, “Fire brigade’ll be on their way.”

“It would be a pity for them to take a wrong turn.” Michael murmurs.

“Nope, no. No way.” Gerry replies. 

“Nothing is on fire anymore.” Michael protests.

“Your way or the window.” Gerry retorts, “Your choice.” 

Michael gives him a cheeky little grin. Gerry groans and grabs for his duffel bag.

\---

He doesn’t see it on the bus ride out of the city, or in the airport. The flight itself is over almost before it’s begun; he sleeps right through takeoff. The plane is already on the ground again when the flight attendant shakes him awake.

It feels like years since he’s seen his own flat. He tosses his bag unceremoniously towards the sofa before he even flips the light switch. Instead of the cushions, it thuds into something hard and dense. There’s a little titter.

“...Hello?” 

The lights sputter to life. Michael is perched on one corner of the sofa, Gerry’s bag in its lap. Pale lines still weave across its skin where its wounds once gaped light, but Gerry can no longer discern even a trace of the glow beneath. 

“Hello, bookburner.”

Gerry lets his keys fall to the floor.

Its mouth feels like a lightning strike against his. Gerry is pushing its shoulders down into the cushions, climbing up over it as it laughs against his lips. Its long hands come up to grip his shoulders.

“How long’ve you been in my flat?” Gerry pants softly.

It smirks up at him, “Time is a very subjective experience.”

He drags his teeth over its earlobe, “I swear, if you came straight here from the States and made me fly-”

Michael shudders and laughs, and Gerry’s skin buzzes with it. He presses his face into the hollow of its neck, sinks his teeth down over where its pulse once would have been. It cries out and arches up off the sofa. 

“Do you-” Gerry breathes into its skin, “This is something that you do? That you...that you like?”

“Parts of me. Once.” Michael exhales.

“And now?” Gerry asks.

“It appears to be both.” Michael tells him, and Gerry feels its hips shift up against his.

Gerry hisses with pleasure and begins to undo the buttons of its shirt. Long fingers climb up beneath the hem of his, sharp but deliberate. Gerry squirms back to let Michael tug it up over his shoulders. Trying to follow its eyes as they rake over him leaves him lightheaded. It traces a fingertip curiously across the pink-white scar just beneath one pectoral. Gerry flushes. 

“Top surgery.” He supplies, “That a problem for you, or-?”

Michael glances up to him, brow furrowed, “Why should it be?”

Gerry seizes its mouth with his own. Michael's fingers drift down his torso as Gerry fumbles with the last of its buttons. He wastes no time when its shirt falls open, leaning down to sink his teeth into one slender shoulder. The lights flicker when Michael gasps.

“ _Gerry_.” It shudders out.

Gerry’s head swims. It’s hard to keep his teeth in it, or at least in one place, but he worries doggedly at the spot with his tongue until it bruises. Michael whimpers like the chattering of chimes in the wind. Gerry grips both of its wrists to press them up against the arm of the couch. 

“What do you want?” He asks when he has it stretched beneath him.

Its eyes are heavy-lidded and shifting, cheeks stained with a blue-purple blush, “F-...For you to take what you do.” It admits quietly.

“ _ Jesus. _ ” Gerry nearly chokes. He can’t tell if it’s its words or its voice, but for a moment, his mind is absolutely useless. When he finds it again, it’s to wind one hand into Michael’s hair, “You sure?”

“Never.” It laughs.

“Right. Stupid question.”

“But I have rarely been closer.” Michael amends. As if to demonstrate this, it tilts its head just a sliver to the side, until its hair goes taut in Gerry’s grip.

Gerry groans and tugs until it’s arched up under him. Michael whines, the low buzz of a saw blade, and twists in his grasp. Gerry skims the other hand up its chest to find and pluck at one nipple, and the windows seem to warp ever so slightly inward.

“L-Let me-” Michael stammers, one hand reaching for the button on Gerry’s jeans. 

Gerry leans back a fraction of an inch to let it flick it open, and it makes short work of the zipper immediately afterward. He tilts his hips up and frees himself carefully from both the jeans and his underwear, discards them on the floor beside his fallen shirt. Michael makes a quavering sound somewhere in its throat. 

“You- I- what is it you want?” It warbles, “From me. For me. To have.” It adds.

“Huh?” Gerry asks. Michael’s eyes dart briefly downward, and Gerry stares, “...You-?”

Michael shrugs, a motion that speaks of far too many joints, and offers him a wry smile, “Lies are always malleable.”

“I- Okay.” Gerry stammers, “That’s-” It’s going to make him lose his mind, and it’s not even trying.

“Not that you wouldn’t be well within your rights to choose other avenues, of course.” It muses. 

Gerry’s eyebrows cant. His mind snaps back to his rugburned elbow, to its fucking  _ tongue _ , and he shudders, “Could think of a few, now that you mention it.”

“Oh?” It mirrors his expression in neon.

“You want to head to the bedroom, first, or-?”

“I want to be where you want me to be, bookburner.”

Fucking hell. 

He pins its wrists up beside its head, and Michael gives a pleased little trill. Its face darkens and smudges when he replaces one hand with a knee.

“ _ Oh _ .” It breathes, “Oh my.”

“Work for you?” Gerry asks quietly.

Michael swallows, nodding quickly. The corner of Gerry’s mouth pricks up.

“You really do like it, don’t you?” He says, voice low and ragged, “When I’m in charge.”

Michael’s outline fizzes and curls. A few stifled syllables drop from Gerry-isn’t-sure-which of its mouths. He laughs, and it shivers under him.

“And when I talk to you about it, too.” He teases.

“Do you plan to only talk?” Michael hisses.

“Why? Did you want me to do something else?” Gerry asks, mock-innocent, “Could ask nicely.”

Michael lets out a soft growl. Its tongue slips past its lips, easily long enough to snake up the inside of Gerry’s thigh. Gerry sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“Right. That’s- that.” He nearly wheezes. The tip of Michael’s tongue is close enough to feel the wet heat of it against his cunt, just barely not touching.

“Please.” It croaks as it retracts it back into its mouth, “Let me taste you, Gerry.”

He needs no further encouragement. Bracing a hand on the arm of the couch, he sinks himself down over its face. Michael groans into him at once, and the touch of its mouth muddies Gerry’s vision and electrifies his nerves. Its tongue surges out once more to sweep the full breadth of him, long, rough strokes that have Gerry shaking almost instantly. He grinds his hips down, cursing, and clings to the armrest.

He can feel the tip of it sink into him, all muscle and slick, and then Michael’s hands are in the small of his back, urging him even further. Gerry pitches forward onto the intrusion. He can feel it twisting,  _ squirming  _ inside him, deep and obscene and showing no sign of a limit.

“ _ Michael. _ ” He rasps, fisting a hand in its hair.

It whimpers up into him, and the vibration sets him quivering. Gerry’s hips move of their own accord, now, jerk down over it again and again as he fucks himself on its mouth. Behind him, he can hear Michael’s toes curl in the cushions. 

“Touch yourself.” He orders breathlessly, “Touch yourself for me, Michael.”

It gives a helpless mewl, and one hand falls away from his back. He hears a wet, slippery sound, and then Michael is moaning in earnest, devouring him. Gerry is so full he doesn't even know what to do with himself. Michael's tongue crooks, spares a coil for his clit, and he nearly loses his grip on the armrest. 

"F-Fuck-" He stammers, "So good, h-how do you even-  _ nhh _ -"

He's fraying at the seams, now, dangerously close to coming apart, and Michael's body pitches in time with his own. He can hear, can  _ feel  _ its muffled, helpless cries between his legs, can feel the way it tilts its chin to offer him more, more, everything it can give. Gerry's hardly a virgin, but he's also not sure he's ever had this much inside him, and the stretch of it, the heat and ache and fullness of it all steals the breath from his lungs. 

"Michael," He gasps, "G-Gonna'-"

It seizes his waist with its free hand, pins him down against itself, and Gerry is lost, hips pitching, muscles wrenching. The force of it batters him; Gerry gives a ragged cry and claws into one of Michael’s shoulders. It wails beneath him, and Gerry can feel wet heat spatter up into the small of his back. His skin breaks into electric goosebumps. 

His chest is heaving when its tongue slinks free. Gerry slumps back, breathless, into its lap. Michael squirms itself upright against the arm of the couch, and Gerry twines his arms around its waist. 

“H-...holy shit.” Gerry wheezes.

Michael licks its lips and grins. 

\---

If Gertrude notices the marks - and there are  _ plenty _ of marks - she doesn’t seem eager to express an opinion on the matter. There’s another lead to be followed, another book to be burned, and Gerry knows that, when push comes to shove, he’s the best means to that end she’s got. Nobody besides Leitner himself has gotten his hands on as many nightmarish tomes as Gerry. What - and  _ with  _ what - he spends his time with outside of working hours, well. That’s his business, isn’t it?

Michael isn’t always there when Gerry returns from work, or when he comes home from an assignment abroad. Often, but not always. He doesn’t ask where it goes. But when he wakes up each morning, in his own bed or another one halfway across the world, there it is, a whorl of fractalling color swirling in his blurred vision. Kissing into its broad, sharp mouth is a gamble. Sometimes, it makes his eyes water. Other times, he swears he can feel his own edges begin to blur. Every time, he inhales the consequences, savors each indescribable moment of it when Michael tangles him into its long limbs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, lovely folx <3 As ever, I'm happy to vibe with fellow nerds at clutchhedonist.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Expect a chapter each Saturday until Halloween! Until them, come stew in Gerrymichael feels with me at clutchhedonist.tumblr.com <3


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